Under Pressure
by Laerthel
Summary: After years of fruitless search, Aziraphale meets Crowley for the first time since the Holy Water Incident. It doesn't go smoothly, to say the least. (A hasty style experiment in four parts).
1. In Which Crowley Gets a New Job

_**A/N:**__ I don't know what I'm doing in this fandom, but it feels distinctively similar with being trapped on Crowley's tape._

* * *

**1975, San Francisco, USA**

There is a vast open highway that saunters off the outer rim of the city, then takes a bold cut to the south. A-something or F-something, it doesn't matter. There are tons of highways around San Francisco anyway, and most of them take bold cuts.

Among those tons of highways, there is not a single one that doesn't sport at least a few dozens of gas stations per mile (not when you're this close to the city anyway), and it is near one of said gas stations that the demon Crowley is stretching out between the halo of dirty oil lamps and the darkness of the summer night that envelops the public bathroom facility like a velvety blanket.

As of now, Crowley is in a rather difficult situation, mostly because it is all in his head. Previously, he had spilled an entire cup of vanilla shake on the counter, bought a tramp a _devilishly_ lucky lottery ticket and screamed an attendant's hairs off (one by one) because the man had tried to clean the windows of his Bentley. It was just becoming too much, really, so Crowley had furiously asserted that he was _'off to the loo',_ but now that he's there, he's unsure what to do.

The natural needs of demons include plotting and lurking and wreaking havoc and perhaps drinking Scotch, but definitely _not_ going to the loo. Humans are very private about whatever is supposed to happen there, and Crowley is not entirely certain that he has grasped the full concept in the past 6,000 years. He might just need to improvise.

One thing is sure about the bloody loo, though: it smells like a rotting corpse. Not a smell that Crowley shouldn't be able to tolerate, but a smell that has him wrinkle his nose anyway. He's an earthling now – as close as he'll ever be to one, anyway – and he has the right to feel displeasure at certain _should-be-pleasurable_ things. That's what makes him good at what he does.

A few moments later, the reek materializes in the second last person Crowley wants to see right now. Not that he is significantly _surprised_, to be sure. Nothing pleasant happens to your average demon on your average day anyway.

'_Evening, Hastur,'_ Crowley says cheerfully. He tries not to wrinkle his nose as he finds it most unbecoming. _'How it rolls?'_

'_How what rolls?'_ Hastur growls. He is like a shade among deeper shades: dark as the night itself (but not at all velvety).

'_I mean, comment allez-vous? That's how they say it up 'round here. Or something like. You're not even meant to answer, y'know. Rather convenient.'_

'_Jokin' around, are we?'_

Hastur doesn't take jokes too well, that much is known. But Crowley doesn't look like someone who is joking, so he has nothing to fear; he just glares at Hastur as balefully as he can manage.

'_There's a job, Crowley,'_ Hastur says, possibly convinced by what, in Crowley's opinion, wasn't the truest diabolical impression he's ever did.

Crowley squints a little bit. Then, he remembers that his sunglasses are already back on and Hastur can't see through them. He tilts his head.

'_Obviously,' _he says. _'You could've just dropped it through the radio, you know.'_

Hastur frowns.

'_Nah. Important job. There's a businessman called Robertson…'_

'_There are many businessmen called this-son and that-son. Been looking for a Bitchson for decades.'_

'_Whatever. Target's here. In this city. Big casnoo… casinew… ugh, card-playing man.'_

Somewhere deep, deep inside, Crowley feels a sparkle of interest.

'_And the job is?'_

'_Temptation.'_

Crowley gestures vaguely. _'How bad?'_

Hastur looks at him pointedly, as if he was raising an eyebrow he doesn't have. The eyebrow says _'as bad as you can make it, douche'_ and Crowley shrugs. Yet another soul he needs to capture.

'_I exist to serve.'_

Hastur nods briefly and turns away to leave. Halfway, though, he decides that he no longer wants to turn away, neither to leave; so he halts and his neck twists back in an angle that should be unnatural for earthly bodies.

'_Done anything… visible… lately?'_

'_Such as?'_

'_Like when you started that terrific big war. Last time.'_

Crowley stiffens, suddenly hammered by the memory of World War Two; of a sickening realization that had tied his guts into a knot (and haven't released them ever since); of walking on holy ground…

'_No,'_ he says. _'Nothing of that magnificence.'_

'_You sure, snake?'_

Hastur is looking at him expectantly, and Crowley almost wishes he was lying.

'_Why?'_

Hastur's pitch black eyes are darting into his. Funny how it is the only thing about his demonic appearance that he's ever cared to hide… Now, Hastur is clearly _considering_ something, and that alone is suspicious enough for Crowley to feel uneasy.

Suddenly, Hastur is done _considering_.

'_The angel's after you, y'know.'_

We all know the kind of laugh when we _perform a_ _mort-de-rire,_ as Crowley likes to put it, while we feel shittier than Eliot when he wrote _The Waste Land_.

Crowley performs one of those _morts-de-rire_ and crosses his arms.

'_Not too bad, eh? Five thousand ickle years and he starts wondering if I'm up to something…'_

'_Ickle?'_

Hastur utters the word with commendable disgust, and Crowley has a fleeting impression of boiling sulfur in the hollow of his chest.

'_Nevermind. Will take care of it.'_

'_Don't feel obliged.'_ Hastur bows mockingly. _'I'd gladly have your place… and that stupid car…'_

Crowley is positive that the Bentley would get more points in an IQ test than Hastur, but he engages his diplomatic skills and shrugs.

'_We'll see about that.'_

* * *

Crowley is speeding towards the city like there's no tomorrow, and nothing can wreck his mood.

Right?

Led Zeppelin's _Going to California_ echoes from one car window to another, and he feels in his element. Not that he's going to California, mind you – he's already there. And he likes it. _Oh,_ he does. Nice change from England. So comfortable. So convenient. So warm. And there's mac-n-cheese.

In San Francisco, he hardly even needs to _tempt_ people. He merely drops the ideas. And Los Angeles, he's left behind already because its_ people_ were tempting _him_.

_He's after you, _Crowley reminds himself. He also reminds himself that the _'he'_ means not just your everyday angel. But_ Him._

He cannot bear to say the name, or even think of it, as if he was afraid that its owner materializes in the backseat of his car just by mention.

Then of course, his mind does the job.

_Aziraphale. What does he want?_

Things are as clear between them as they will ever be. The Agreement. The occasional banter. All right, the _constant_ banter. Then, a favour for a favour. _Fin_. Curtains down.

That's all it was, at least for the bloody angel. Neat and clear.

_What does he want now?!_

It's been _centuries._ Well, alright. Almost eight years. But that's easily the longest they'd spent without seeing each other for quite a while. It should have gotten the message through.

_What does he want?!_

Crowley is now snarling in a most inhuman way; but the night is dark, and the windows of the Bentley are blessedly tinted. He's imagining a scale in his head – the concept is _appallingly _human, but rather helpful if you want to navigate your gut-wrenching pain towards explosive anger. And as far as Crowley is concerned, explosive anger is much easier to deal with.

You just let its flames roar without counting casualties.

* * *

_**Further A/N:**__ I honestly don't know if I should continue this – it's one of those one-shots that randomly pop out of your head, you write them down, and once they exist, you'd feel bad if you let them feed your drawers._


	2. In Which Crowley Sucks at Metaphors

_**A/N:**__ Ye asked, good people, and part 2 is delivered to thee._

* * *

It is past 3AM, and the smaller roads are all but deserted.

Crowley has now been through _Led Zeppelin IV_ two times, and he is still racing aimlessly – as much as exploring every bump and delve of the road in one of the most sophisticated automobiles ever made can be considered _aimless_.

The windows of the Bentley are down, and the wind plays with Crowley's hair. Of the many forms it can take, it is now shoulder-length – a bit wavy near the nape, just enough to come off as artfully natural. He sports a pair of Levi's jeans and a matte leather jacket. Collector's piece, easily as expensive as the Bentley itself. Formerly belonged to that funny-haired rock star who'd been all over the radio in the fifties…

In fact, Crowley looks somewhat like a rock star himself; not suspicious at all, as California holds the world record of the number of rock stars per square mile. He blends in. He _likes _California. He's a natural now.

Still, something doesn't feel right. Again and again, Crowley's thoughts turn back to the sudden appearance of Hastur and his prying questions. He suspects that the outcome of his new mission will be carefully examined. He might even report properly for once…

Yeah. That will do it. Should be easy, though – he no longer has to worry about the Agreement. The Agreement is over, just like his _fraternizing_ with Aziraphale. If you can call it that.

_(That word, FRATERNIZING, shows just how little the angel must have cared. Curse him and spite him…!)_

…and then, as Crowley is unintentionally – _subconsciously_, one could say – pulls through that ever-recurring thread in his mind, a sudden thought occurs to him.

_Aziraphale is looking for him._ And Hastur has warned him about it. What a _remarkable_ demonstration of thoughtfulness coming from one who had always hated and envied him…

Not suspicious at all, eh?

_But how does Hastur even know what's going on?! _Hell isn't aware that he and Aziraphale had even talked face to face to start with, let alone indulged in some _fraternizing_ every now and then… Hell only knows that Aziraphale's task is to keep Crowley in check without him noticing; and Hell wouldn't wish for angels and demons engaging in open confrontation, either.

Crowley takes a bold turn left, not even seeing the road as he skims through possibilities and scenarios in his mind. _Aziraphale ambushed by his lot?_ Doesn't make sense, would create unnecessary paperwork. _Aziraphale bumped into Hastur or Ligur while searching his flat, or something?_ No fat chance, he's smarter than that. Aziraphale wouldn't just go ruining his _reputation_ by looking after some foul fiend, thank you very much!

(Crowley spits).

…_Aziraphale sent after him by Gabriel?_ Not very likely. The reason Aziraphale still walks Earth is because he's bound to keep an eye on him – and _that's_ the likely explanation right there.

Aziraphale is simply keeping an eye on him.

They might be at odds (very much at odds, in fact), but that blasted angel has always been dutiful, and he will carry on with the mission he's been trusted with since Noah and the ark. Or even before.

_And this time, he might even be serious about it,_ Crowley realizes with a pang of unease. Aziraphale is as thoughtful, kind and righteous as your textbook angel but hell, you don't wanna get on his wrong side…!

Crowley often thinks that he's like a bite of Cherry Queen._ All soft and sweet and tickety-boo on the outside… but on the inside, it's more like liquor and a burning taste. Yep, liquor. Strong booze with a bitter lingering effect. Gets hard on you._

Crowley is not very good at metaphors; but he knows what he means, and that is enough for him.

He can also eat an entire box of Cherry Queen at one sitting, if you've been wondering.

* * *

Sweets and metaphors aside, the unanswered question still claws at Crowley's mind: _How does Hastur know?!_

And unwanted, unacknowledged, uncalled-for, Crowley feels a rather distinct knot of concern tie itself in his guts: the same concern that had him break into a church and render Shakespeare's Hamlet miraculously successful and do many other stupid and _in-atrocious_ things.

The city of San Francisco stretches out on the horizon like a gigantesque web weaved of starlight and tears, and Crowley's car is picking up speed. Again.


	3. In Which Aziraphale Is Totally Fine

**Meanwhile in Los Angeles**

It is past 3 AM, and the Whisky a Go Go is miraculously open and – less miraculously – full. Free drinks slide off the counter like flocks ofbirds, and the cocktails seem to contain twice as much alcohol as usual. The barman must be out of his right mind.

The angel Aziraphale is seated in the back of the bar, with approximately the same mindset as kids have when they cover their eyes to hide from their parents. Or maybe exactly. There are, however, a number of extenuating circumstances.

First of all – no, Aziraphale is obviously _not _trashing himself, thank you very much. The half-empty bottle of Dom Perignon is just there by accident. Just like the others. Oh, and by the way, it's _half full_.

Secondly – Aziraphale has a perfectly understandable reason for Not Trashing Himself. Namely, he is trying to find a certain demon, and the Whisky a Go Go is typically a place where Aziraphale would go if he was a demon. _Think with the enemy's mind, _and so forth.

And thirdly – Los Angeles could be, to put it mildly, _one of Hell's earthly dominions_. That is the feeling Aziraphale gets… and he doesn't even know exactly _why._

There are places where people are openly suffering – troubled by wars, famine and poverty – and Los Angeles is not one of those places. Here, suffering is subtle: hidden, unsubstantial, hardly-even-there. Perhaps _not-even-there._ Merely_ fictive, _you could say, like money when charged, revalued and printed without backup.

This new kind of suffering is overwhelmingly more powerful than any angel could ever hope to be. It is immune to miracles and unmoved by the small joys of everyday life Aziraphale so adores.

He has not seen such a thing in his six thousand years of earthly existence. Ever.

* * *

All things considered, it is more than a little understandable that Aziraphale feels the need for a night of sophisticated amusement. _Well._ Perhaps Not Trashing Yourself isn't exactly what angels would call _sophisticated_; but that does not truly matter now.

Crowley, if he were here, would probably say that they should look for a more interesting bar, where he could _at least_ fight drunkards or have Aziraphale miracle all the rewards out of the slot machines.

Crowley can be such a douche sometimes.

* * *

Aziraphale hasn't seen Crowley for eight years now, and the last time they met, that idiot was about to commit the last mistake of his existence. Stealing holy water from a church, bah… Thank Almighty he, Aziraphale was there to stop him! His saviour, his voice of reason. Once a guardian angel, always a guardian angel, eh…?

That said, _he_ had dreadfully overstepped himself as well. _Stealing holy water from a church, then giving it to a demon. A demon! _If anyone were to find out, either from Above or Below, they would both be doomed…

Aye. Here is the thing Crowley doesn't seem to understand; and here is the thing that leaves Aziraphale utterly amazed whenever his lack of that understanding happens to manifest. How could one who has already Fallen _(dipped in boiling sulfur as easily as you dip sushi in soy sauce),_ how could a _demon_ NOT be afraid of the possible consequences of befriending an _angel…? _Of helping him?

_If anyone ever found out…_

Well, it wouldn't be the end of the world. He, Aziraphale would maybe get _downgraded_ or so… but those from the _other_ office would find no rest until Crowley's been not only discorporated but thoroughly _destroyed_…

How could Crowley not be afraid of that? Of non-existence?How could he be willing to play with _THAT?_ That looming threat, that impending doom? What kind of courage, what kind of _utter folly_ must have possessed him! What a selfish, destructing attitude! How inconsiderate! How _rude!_

It suddenly occurs to Aziraphale that he probably shouldn't continue drinking, but the voice of reason is faint, and the radio is playing that insane song again. _The Rhapsody of the Bohemian,_ or something.

_(Wasn't it enough to have it played in England twelve times a day, for Heaven's sake…?!)_

Aziraphale has to admit that he finds the Scaramouche bit almost ingenious. _Almost_.

* * *

Two further bottles of champagne later, Aziraphale still wonders where he'd gone wrong.

The Agreement had worked marvellously for years, with the Lines carefully Drawn. And then, everything blurred.

_Crowley is to blame, truly,_ Aziraphale thinks as he watches his reflection on an empty bottle. The bottle is dark and his reflection dirty – his corporeal face is a smudged mess, only his eyes shine.

Objectively speaking, Aziraphale is right. Crowley was the one to step outside the Lines first, with a most unusual request, one that left Aziraphale deeply troubled. What would a demon even do with holy water? What_ reassurance_ would it bring him? What was he even _talking_ about?

And why, just _why _he, Aziraphale had to follow outside the Lines, by bringing him the suicide pill he wanted…?

What if it _was,_ in fact, a suicide pill?


	4. In Which They Have A Truce

_**A/N: Dear Guest - I'm h**__**appy you enjoyed my writing! You wanted them to meet, and meet they shall.**_

_**This is it. Hope you guys enjoyed this sm**__**all b**__**all of **__**angst... If you want more of my Good Omens-stuff, check out my multichap, 'The Debt'.**_

* * *

The first glimpse he catches of Crowley is like a rush of blood to the head. It is also swift, and elusive, and it drowns him in a myriad of conflicting emotions.

Briefly, Aziraphale wonders if he had licked the wrong stamp at the post office. The seventies are, after all, a dreaded age. Is he, as the lovely American expression goes, _high_ now? Or is he dreaming? Is he just being an idiot?

But _no._

Crowley is there. Alive, and well, and sauntering carelessly about the edge of his vision. A day, a year or perhaps a minute ago, Aziraphale would have kept to the Rules that are Carefully Set and the Lines that are Meticulously Drawn, but he suddenly feels like – quite like a bomb must feel before exploding, really.

And so he does.

"_CrowLEY!"_

It is a shriek - downright _shriek –_ embarrassing, _unbecoming_. Really, it should be very hard to explain _why_ exactly he has just shrieked like that. It is most unpolite, too.

"Crowley," Aziraphale repeats, now approximately on the right frequency, at an almost human speed. Nice. _Great._ No need to scream his head off. They can go civil about this.

Crowley almost turns when he hears his name, but not _quite_. He gives the slightest wince, the smallest nod of his head – _he has heard_ –, and his hand reaches out for a moment before he walks away, as if hoping to catch something that would hold him back. There is, of course, nothing to stop him; and Aziraphale stares at his back, defeated, for what feels like a very long time.

Night has already fallen, the parking lot is almost empty, and Crowley is walking slowly towards his car. _Very slowly_. So slowly that a whole second passes between his heels and the tip of his feet as they touch the ground; and somewhere between a discarded Walmart receipt and a pink chewing gum stuck to Crowley's soles, Aziraphale glimpses his chance.

"_Crowley,"_ he says the name for the third time, mindful of force and tonality, of stress and pressure.

Crowley says, _"What," _and it's like a whole new world unfurling in front of Aziraphale's eyes. Fleeing from something icy and gripping, he crosses most of the distance between them, wishing that his corporation would be fitter, somehow. Or perhaps a little bit taller.

* * *

'_What'_ is a pretty open question for Aziraphale, to be sure, and terribly dangerous in all its vagueness and fake carelessness. _'What'_-s are full of dark pits with terrible things at the bottom, things that will turn you inside out. Or worse.

'_What'_ is how a job interview at an oil company might start. _'What'_ is the kind of question Presidents are never allowed to answer, and pop stars try to dodge. And still, in all its horridness, one might find that _'What'_ is actually a gentle and fair question, as there is only _one_ wrong answer to it (which Aziraphale immediately produces).

"Well," he says, a little bit breathlessly, "fancy meeting you here!"

There is a wave of tenseness that starts somewhere at the base of Crowley's spine, and runs through all his corporeal form. He stands in front of his Bentley for a few seconds, silent and rigid as if made of ice.

"I don't have time for this," he says in a low voice. "Not anymore."

Suddenly, it's 1967 all over again, and Aziraphale is caught in a whirl; thinking too fast, feeling too fast, despairing too fast. Chest too tight, held back by duty, chained by cowardice disguised as loyalty to his Side. And now it's too late; Crowley has travelled a million miles while he had kept to the same, linear road; and different things are on his mind now. He came and he went, their paths collided, but Crowley won't have that anymore.

It is over.

"I did my job," Crowley adds, uncertainly. "Will stay here for a while. Tempt a few accountants. You can write that in your report."

Aziraphale finds himself caught in a most bizarre cerebral translation error, where he is trying to say '_please don't go, I haven't seen your for years and I want to talk'_ and manages, _"Er, yes, jolly good, then. I will."_

"Ngk," Crowley agrees, and opens the door of his Bentley.

"_Crowley,"_ says Aziraphale, voice full of genuine alarm. _"Er…"_

And here he goes again, tongue-tied. Crowley is sliding into the car, and a spasm of heat flares in Aziraphale's chest (then it dies out immediately, terrified of its own intensity).

However, it occurs to Aziraphale that Crowley has probably just managed the slowest car boarding of the century, and that gives him courage.

"My dear boy, will you – can you just call me, er, you know, every… every year? Or every ten years? I thought… I feared that you might have used the… the _thing _I gave you, and I – well, I have been searching for you ever since."

Crowley's hand slides off the wheel.

"I understand if you don't want to see me anymore," Aziraphale says, a bit stiffly. The previous heat in his chest has now transformed into ice – nasty thing, makes it quite difficult to speak. Perhaps it is a heart condition. His corporation must be getting old.

"It's just – it would be jolly… jolly good if I could know that you… that you still…"

A whole minute passes like that; Aziraphale standing around in speechless pain, a mud stain on the tip of his left shoe, the wind blowing mercilessly through a dilated button-hole on his vest and Crowley getting on with the super-slow car boarding performance.

At one point, the Bentley's opposite door flies open, and Aziraphale takes the chance, mentally bracing himself for the blast of speed that is about to come; but nothing happens for several more minutes. He is not sure if Crowley is even breathing, but he somehow feels like it would be rude to check. Not to mention he doesn't truly know how to politely check if someone's breathing.

Then Crowley asks, "Dinner?"

And suddenly, everything is back to normal, save for the hole in his chest.


End file.
